


Leaving Behind The Old

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She foresaw that bringing the file to Sherlock would be awkward, but she didn't think it would be this awkward. Sally Donovan, Post-Reunion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Behind The Old

As if it wasn't bad enough that she had to drive to Sherlock Holmes' (and apparently, since his girlfriend had broken up with him because he chose to run after a madman at every hour of the night, John Watson's) flat on the last day of the year, just when people were getting ready to celebrate the turning of the page, a new beginning.

She had to because apparently Sherlock (not "freak" anymore, because – it had cost him his life once, and that he had survived didn't changed anything, she would never call him – that – again) needed a file to solve their latest case, and DI Lestrade didn't want to pick it up himself.

She couldn't blame him; remembering the sounds she'd heard through the phone as he'd called, it must be a good party. If Sally had suddenly found herself at such, she wouldn't have wanted to leave either.

Only she suddenly did find herself at exactly the party the DI was attending, because it took place at 221B Baker Street.

She had known that he had spent Christmas Eve, as well as a part of Christmas Day, in Sherlock's flat.

However, Christmas, when people usually felt obliged to invite their relatives and friends, was one thing.

A New Year's Party meant that Sherlock had invited all these people because he wanted to see them.

There had been a sign at the door that told her to "Come up, it's not locked", so she had. She really should have ded – figured out there was a party going on.

And there were quite a few guests, far more than Sally would have supposed would ever receive an invitation from the consulting detective.

There were DI Lestrade, Doctor Hooper (they probably had come together, if office rumours were anything to go by), the guy who had introduced Sherlock and John (what was his name again? Mike – yes, Mike Stamford, that was it) and their landlady, of course.

But there were several other people she wouldn't have expected here as well.

DI Dimmock was standing in a corner, talking to a young woman with a blackberry in her hand.

A couple in their thirties were conversing with a man who couldn't have been older than twenty-seven and who had paint all over his clothes. It took her a moment to recognize the older man as Henry Knight, who had been one of the leaders of the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" campaign and given interview after interview saying that he hadn't been a fake and had saved his father's reputation as well as his life and sanity.

A posh-looking man with an umbrella in his hand was nodding to what an elderly lady (not Mrs. Hudson, but most likely her sister, there was a resemblance) was saying.

Mrs. Hudson was also talking to someone she didn't recognize, a man about John Watson's age with a sunburnt face and a pleasant smile.

The only one she couldn't see was Sherlock, and she started to suspect that he had vacated the premises for what was a party organized by his flatmate when they both emerged from the kitchen, carrying plates with drinks on them.

John was beaming, and Sherlock was trying to look uncomfortable.

Trying being the key word.

Before, Sally had never been able to read him, not really; now it was like he was deliberately keeping his expression open, as a favour to his guests.

The Sergeant, who had been spending the evening alone in her flat before Lestrade had called, felt like she was intruding, and not just on any party.

No, everyone seemed so strangely comfortable, amidst the skull on the mantelpiece and the smiley with bullet holes on the wall that she felt like she was intruding on a crazy-but-still-content family party, with Sherlock Holmes at the centre.

She swallowed, and for a moment, she wondered if she should turn back.

She hadn't talked to him or Doctor Watson or anyone else in connection with them (except for DI Lestrade) since he had returned.

Not only hadn't she known what to say – she still didn't – but she felt reasonably sure he wouldn't want to talk to her.

She had been the one who had first spoken out against him, the one who had convinced the DI to go to the Chief Superintendent.

Even if it had all come to pass because of the "games" (as John had put it on his website) Sherlock and Moriarty had played, she had still been the one to set it in motion. The one to voice her suspicion. And in the end Sherlock had paid for it with two years of his life.

She hadn't reacted to his death either. Well, in a way, she had. She had grown more quiet, she had never said another word against him, but she hadn't defended him, not even when it became clearer with every case that was reinvestigated that the consulting detective had been right.

Right about the cases, the murderers, the clues, everything.

She still didn't say anything.

She declined the promotion the Chief Superintendent wanted her to have right after Sherlock's funeral, but other than that –

She wasn't like her ex-lover, who had quit his job in order to track down the consulting detective a few months after his death.

She kept in contact with him and grew more and more concerned every time he told her that this case and that case was another proof that Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead.

She hadn't seen or spoken to him since Sherlock's return – not surprising, since it had taken place a little less than four weeks ago – but she imagined he must feel better about himself.

He deserved to.

Sally didn't.

He had spoken when she had been silent.

And now here she was, where she had no business to be.

In the middle of a group of people who had always believed in Sherlock, who were his friends.

Sally had believed dropping off the file would be awkward.

She couldn't have foreseen how awkward.

Looking down at her hands, she felt tempted to go back, leave the file on the stairs. No one had noticed her yet. No one would know she'd been her, had intruded –

Only that Sherlock Holmes had noticed, of course.

She looked up to find him staring at her.

John had been talking to DI Lestrade, but when he realized his best friend wasn't paying attention anymore (how, Sally didn't know; perhaps he had developed a sixth sense when it came to Sherlock Holmes) he turned to glance in her direction.

He said something to Sherlock, the consulting detective shook his head impatiently and strode towards her.

Everyone else in the room had by now caught on that someone who wasn't supposed to be there had dropped in and their expression varied from curiosity (the man who'd been talking to Mrs. Hudson) to contempt (Henry Knight) to unreadable (the posh guy with the umbrella).

John Watson looked like he didn't know if he should be polite and greet her or pretend she didn't exist, and she didn't blame him.

She didn't think about him or the others any longer, however, because suddenly Sherlock was standing in front of her.

Not only hadn't she spoken to him since he returned, but she also hadn't looked at him. At least not into his eyes.

Now she did and she didn't know if she should be relieved or ashamed that there was no condemnation there.

In fact, if anything, he looked... composed. Relaxed, even. Something she would never have associated with him before anything.

He was deducing her like he always had, and Sally told herself that grinning like an idiot at the man she had condemned to spend two years in hiding was not an appropriate response.

"Greg has had a little too much to drink" he announced, and for a moment she didn't understand what it meant, but then she heard the unspoken "or he wouldn't have called you here" and nodded.

"I have the file –" she cleared her throat.

"Sorry for crashing your party."

She could feel the eyes of the others on her, and she wondered what they were thinking. If they felt her to be as guilty as she did herself.

"I believe the term "crashing" is not appropriate here – " he answered, trailing off when John appeared beside him, apparently having decided that he would be polite to her.

"Sergeant" he said, his voice carefully devoid of any emotion, and she saw Sherlock shoot him a glance that was a strange mixture of annoyance and fondness.

She found that she understood what it meant.

Sherlock wouldn't think her guilty, or not too guilty. He was logical. He had fought against Moriarty. Moriarty was to blame. John, of course, wouldn't see it that way.

Sally didn't either.

"Hello" she said, and searched for Lestrade, only to find him in a very animated conversation with the pathologist. In fact, everyone had gone back to ignoring her.

She still felt like an intruder, though, and she knew everyone else did too.

She all but shoved the file in Sherlock's hands, already turning around when he stopped her with, "You should stay for a drink".

"What?"

She didn't realize that she and John had spoken at the same time immediately, but to his credit, the doctor looked guilty as soon as the word had left his mouth.

Sherlock waved the file in front of him.

"Isn't it customary that, when one gives a party and someone one knows happens to drop in, to offer them some refreshment?"

He sounded almost mischievous, and she half-expected John to protest, but he didn't.

Instead he smirked and motioned her to follow him.

She still drank as quickly as possible and tried to ignore that nobody talked to her, but it wasn't as awkward as she had feared.

Especially when, just as she was putting down her glass, Sherlock appeared beside her and told her, "The milkman".

She nodded and bit her lip, because she had something to say, had had something to say for a long time, but didn't know how –

"It's fine, Donovan. If it hadn't been you – " he shrugged.

"I'm sorry" she said quickly, because she didn't want herself to give in to temptation and take the easy way out.

"You mean that" Sherlock said, frowning, and she nodded.

"I'll go". She waited a moment before adding, "Happy New Year, Sherlock".

"Happy New Year, Donovan".

She was surprised he had answered, but as she left Baker Street she couldn't help but feel that for the first time in years, something new might actually come out of it.


End file.
